


You’re a detective, can you solve my heart out, please?

by MistressGalahat



Series: Twelve Days of Stories [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, John Sure Doesn't, M/M, On a murder scale from one to ten, Sexuality Crisis, Sherlock Needs A Case, Sherlock knows what he wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8748382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressGalahat/pseuds/MistressGalahat
Summary: In which Lestrade is mildly stumped, Sherlock is being a tease and John is struggling with an internal crisis - and as always, there is a case.





	

**Author's Note:**

> On the eleventh day of Christmas  
> my true love sent to me:  
> Eleven Sociopaths Singing

For John Watson, both his exasperation and his livelihood came from one man, with whom he lived and shared a living space with. At times, John would ponder why he was even friends with the bloke, but then something would happen and he would stumble over his own feet in an attempt to keep up with the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes.

In other instances, John simply refused to believe what he was seeing.

“Sherlock?” Called John, the bags of groceries from Tesco heavy in his arms as he clambered up the stairs. His flatmate didn’t answer, and John had become accustomed to the silence that met his greetings whenever he came home and needed help. With a hand in his back pocket, he fished out the key to open their front door and frowned upon entering the flat.

Sherlock wasn’t in his usual haunts; not by the window playing the violin, not in the expensive wing chair beside the Persian slipper, and not in the kitchen mixing up some concoction. John had made it clear that the leftovers left by Miss Hudson was not to be experimented on, but rather eaten, like normal people would with leftovers.

The flat was silent, unusually so, and John deposited of the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. His eyes flickered over the phone left by the skull resting on the mantle above their fireplace, and John ruled out Sherlock having left the apartment. While the taller man was eccentric and refused to answer his cell, he would not have abandoned an opportunity for a case, should Lestrade call with a case. “Sherlock?” He tried again.

Grumbling, John put away the milk and contemplated calling Mrs Hudson before deciding against it. Their landlady had gone to visit family, and she had been gone for longer than John had been out getting groceries. Conclusion; she would not have any new information for him. (Curse Sherlock for making him think so logically. A hazard, surely, of working alongside a man who would rather deduce the way you hold a cup than drink the tea within.)

Deciding eventually that Sherlock wasn’t in the living room, or any other area of their shared quarters, John heaved a sigh and trudged further up the stairs. That left the room which John dared not enter under any other circumstance than complete curiosity or confusion. Or bodily harm - that one was an option as well.

John knocked first, polite if anything. There was a muffled voice calling out ‘come in’ from the other side, and John yanked the door open to Sherlock’s room. Upon entering, his brows narrowed in confusion. The room itself was devoid of Sherlock, yet John was sure it was his flatmate’s voice that he had heard from the other side. There was no tape recorder anywhere John could see, but he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to have one hidden and put on repeat, just for the fun of it.

“Sherlock, I swear to God that if you’re messing with me again…” John left the threat to dangle, and for a few short seconds there was no answer. Then the door to Sherlock’s closet rattled, and John’s feet found their own way over there, just as his hand was on the doorknob before he could blink.

Yanking the wooden door open, John spluttered at the sight that greeted him. “Sherlock, why the hell are you stuffed inside your own closet? And if you say it’s for an experiment, I _will_ knock out a couple of your teeth.”

Curled up in a blanket and standing somewhat stiffly inside a closet that was not made for a man of his stature, Sherlock snorted and stepped over the threshold, standing tall in the process. “Please, John, we all know you’re a doctor, not a dentist.” Sherlock flicked his hair back, a curly lock getting stuck on his lashes and forcing him to clutch at the blanket with only one hand. The sliver of bare skin that was revealed was enough of a surprise to hinder John in properly coming up with a decent response.

John’s fingers flexed on instinct, and Sherlock merely raised an indignant eyebrow at the gesture. “If you’ve not yet had your morning tea, I suggest you do so before deciding whether or not to punch me in the teeth, as you so eloquently put it.”

“Just put on some clothes, will you?” Asked John as he threw a dress shirt at Sherlock. The man caught it with his limber fingers, long and spindly, and John had to force himself to look away and stumble down the stairs before he saw any more of Sherlock’s skin. (Why was he even naked under the blanket anyway, what was the point of that? Had John caught him doing something indecent?) Shaking his head furiously, he willed the thoughts to go away. They were improper, and entirely none of his business.

Tea.

He could do with some tea.

Sherlock emerged not long after John had set the kettle to boil, snapping the last button shut and flattening the creases of his shirt. “Have you decided to punch me yet?” He inquired.

“It’s still up for debate,” said John as he settled down at their kitchen table. The newspaper he tore open should have been new and untouched, but one look at the scribbled notes next to articles about various crimes had John shut it before he could get more frustrated. “Though, I have to say, I’m leaning very much towards hitting you at the moment.” John took a sip of his tea, ready to continue his rant, but was cut short when a phone that wasn’t his vibrated.

Sherlock glanced to his abandoned phone lying innocently on the table, screen flashing and squawking. “Lestrade, no doubt.” Said Sherlock. His face was one of disinterest, except that John had known Sherlock for longer than he would have thought possible, and the excitement in the other’s body language was undeniable.

“I’m not leaving the apartment unless it’s at least a seven,” said John, silently allowing Sherlock permission to at least check the text from Lestrade. Why he had even waited to see what John had to say about it was a mystery that boggled the doctor, but who was he to complain? It was at the very least worth it to see Sherlock’s lips turn upwards slightly as his eyes skimmed the text.

“Do finish your tea swiftly, John, we have somewhere to be.”

 

*

 

It turned out to be an eight in the long run, although John would have placed it as a three the moment he saw the body for himself.

The lifeless man was neither mangled nor minced, a simple gunshot wound to the head administered by someone who knew their way with a gun and a silencer. The one thing that didn’t make a lick of sense was the complete lack of an identity.

“We’ve tried everything,” grumbled Lestrade, hand skimming his graying hair in frustration. “We’ve sent photos off to face recognition without any result, we can’t get any fingerprints off him, and his DNA isn’t in the database. No wallet, no identification of any kind whatsoever.”

“Clearly,” said Sherlock as he circled the lifeless body like a lone vulture. “Anything to add beside the obvious, John?” The weather was cold and bitter, prompting Sherlock to upturn the collar of his Belfast to shield him from the breeze.

John squatted on the ground, grass swaying gently in a gust of wind. The park was abandoned, people no doubt scared away by the brightness of the yellow police tape and the dead man lying on the soil. “Cause of death is no doubt the gun wound, but there are no defensive wounds. He either knew his killer, or someone was able to sneak up on him to take the shot.”

Sherlock gave the body another once over, and John rose from his locked position. “Decent observation, John, but what about his hands?”

The doctor bent over to get a better look at the man’s hands, despite the cold settling in his own joints. “What about his hands, Sherlock? There’s a slight indentation in the palm of his right hand, suggesting that he was used to clutching something tight, but it’s not nearly fresh enough to have been there for a short amount of time before he died.”

Lestrade made a frustrated noise from the back of his throat and John flushed scarlet. For a small second, he had felt like Sherlock. Had felt brilliant for reaching the conclusion that Sherlock obviously wanted him to conclude, judging by the taller man’s lack of jeering. (Or praise, for that matter - never expect praise from a Holmes, silence is much better in that regard.)

Sherlock cleared his throat, his own deductions ready to be made now that he had the attention of every single Yarder in the park. “If you would all direct your attention towards his hands,” a tilt of Sherlock’s head and John saw what he had missed with his own decent deduction. “Fingerprints are unretrievable due to the extensive damage done to his fingertips - the systematism in the action suggests that it was done voluntarily to hide from something or someone. But then look at the back of his hands; they are soft and unblemished, clearly someone who was used to working with gloves despite his muscle mass leading us to believe that he frequently worked with lifting heavy objects. That narrows his field of work down to either transporting arts or a veterinarian.”

“Veterinarian?” Barked Lestrade. “There’s absolutely nothing to indicate he was a veterinarian.”

“On the contrary, Lestrade, there is every indication, although it would be the incorrect choice of the two.” Oh, he just couldn’t help himself, could he? John would have to talk with Sherlock for the umpteenth time about how to properly behave while at a crime scene. Not everyone appreciated being belittled, not even Detective Inspector Lestrade, despite his admirable patience for dealing with Sherlock.

“Well then, what makes him _look_ like a veterinarian, Sherlock?” Pressed John, because inevitably Sherlock would forget to explain the who, how and why to the slow ones if he wasn’t reminded every once in awhile.

Sherlock squatted down to rest beside his flatmate, John acutely aware of their shoulders bumping together, despite Sherlock’s eyes only focusing on the indentation of the man’s right hand. “The continued scraping of skin leads to the conclusion that this man walked with a dog on a leather leash, frequently - therefore it was his own or it belonged to someone close in his life. The width suggests a dog of a larger stature, as well as muscle mass and with a few behavioural issues if the wear and tear is anything to go by. But then, a look at his eyes reveals slight swelling, and paired with the irritated and discoloured skin around his eyelids, it tells us that this man was allergic.”

“Then why keep a dog if he’s allergic?” Asked John, his brows furrowed. Dear God, Sherlock was uncomfortably close as he leaned in to retrieve something from the body.

“Why indeed, that is the question.” Between his fingers, Sherlock rolled a clump of white hair. “Dog hair; white, smooth, short to medium, double layered… The clues add up, Lestrade. I’ll bring the culprit around the station by tomorrow morning at the latest. Do try not to let the rest of the Scotland Yard get in our way, John and I have work to do.”

 

*

 

“Sherlock, when you told me you had an idea where to find the culprit, I didn’t exactly have Angelo’s in mind.” John was a firm believer that the candlelight Angelo had placed on his and Sherlock’s table was a tad bit too much, but his detective companion hadn’t protested. (Which clearly meant that he shouldn’t either, in Sherlock speech).

“Don’t complain, John, I know for a fact that you didn’t get a decent breakfast, and Angelo’s has the best view for the next step in our plan.” Sherlock hadn’t deigned to get himself a plate of food, but had been steadily snatching chips from John’s side order. His gaze hadn’t strayed from the streets in perfect view from their small table by the window.

“Our plan? I didn’t even know we had a plan.”

“ _I_ have a plan, John, a brilliant one.”

John didn’t dare call Sherlock out for using the word brilliant about something he had thought of himself, as that honour was usually reserved for the army doctor only. It was a nice change of pace, thought John, as he munched away on a particularly crispy chip. “What’s the next step, then?”

Sherlock never looked away from the window, only allowing himself a brief glance at John before he redirected his attention back to the outside world. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m dog watching?”

John spluttered and coughed, a few odd stares sent their way for his violent reaction to whatever words Sherlock had muttered in their shared space. “Excuse me, come again? Did you just say dog watching?” There was no way he had heard that right. Except, okay, Sherlock just nodded his consent to the questions he had incredulously posed.

There was no chance to be further enlightened on this matter, as Sherlock abruptly stood from his toppling chair and giving John the sharpest, somewhat friendly, request that he could muster. “You’re done eating, follow me.”

Shovelling down the last bits of food from his plate, John waved a hurried goodbye to Angelo. “Bloody hell.” Sherlock had far too long legs for a short man to follow him on his whims, and yet John couldn’t remember ever properly protesting the treatment Sherlock presented him with. It was how they worked - and it was why John had no trouble pinpointing Sherlock disappearing swiftly after a woman with a large dog.

And with a leather leash at that, who would have thought…

While his companion had long legs and a purposeful stride, John made up for their respective height difference from sheer training and determination. In a few bounds he had caught up to Sherlock, the taller man huffing and puffing beside him.

“Are we following that woman over there?” Asked John, inclining his head in the direction of a tall brunette. White dog, unabashedly large and not particularly well behaved if the jerks on the leash were anything to go by. The woman in question drew her Houndstooth coat closer to her body in the cold weather, eyes frantically checking up on her surroundings every few seconds. (Suspicious, wary and incredibly pretty with her high cheekbones and curly locks).

“That’s who we need to talk to. Foreigner, by the looks of it - and the dog fits too well to not be our victim’s partner in crime.” Sherlock kept his distance to their target, with John following his lead. The woman was still glancing around, but her eyes had yet to zoom in on the odd pair trailing behind her.

There! A sharp jerk of a look sent in their general direction. Sherlock paused in his stride, sidestepping towards a convenient alley while dragging John with him. It took almost the entirety of the action for John to realise that Sherlock was practically holding his hand. (It took another couple of short seconds to stem the blush fighting to blossom on his cheeks).

The brick wall John had been pushed up against was entirely too small and the alley too slim in general for two grown adults to be hiding in. Sherlock’s curls were in John’s face, and John’s hands were strategically placed as far away from Sherlock’s hips as he possibly could.

“I believe she might be on to us,” said Sherlock.

Oh, the case. Of course, how could John allow himself to forget what got them in that situation in the first place. “Why do you reckon she’s the one we’re looking for anyway? It’s London, Sherlock, it’s not that hard to find someone from out of town with a dog.”

Sherlock moved his shoulders, effectively turning his head to face John’s. The doctor couldn’t help but let out a light sneeze as Sherlock’s hair tickled his nose with the movement. (And dear God, Sherlock’s face was so very close).

“The dog she has is an Akbash, John, an _Akbash_.”

“Meaning?” He could almost lick those lips if he just leaned a bit more forward.

“It’s one of the national dogs in Turkey, known to be a fierce protector and a need for a large environment. London is not suitable for a dog of that size, which can only mean that whoever has an Akbash in London needs it direly for other qualities than being a lap dog.”

Those blue eyes bore themselves into John’s skull unwillingly. God, why were they even on a case? John should have claimed to be sick, or anything at all to get out of the jam he found himself stuck in. (Had Sherlock’s eyes always been that blue?)

It took John entirely too long to realise that Sherlock had already popped out from their hiding place. “Sherlock?” Asked John. A dog barked, and there came a round of angry sounding foreign swears from the woman Sherlock had trotted up to, unperturbed by the fact that they had just tried to stalk her. Sherlock exchanged words back, rapidly, and the woman’s cheeks flushed red with both irritation and shame.

“Bloody Hell, Sherlock, you couldn’t give me a heads up before trying to accost the suspect?” John reached the pair with little exertion, the large akbash dog sniffing him when he came to a stand still beside Sherlock. He didn’t receive an answer, as Sherlock merely gave him another short glance to show his appreciation for the silent back up John provided. The woman appeared offended, but John couldn’t be bothered, except for the fact that he clearly didn’t understand whatever it was Sherlock and the woman were discussing. Turkish, John presumed, but where Sherlock had learned to speak it would be another tale for another day.

She spat out a few more words before slapping a paper note in Sherlock’s hands and staggering off with her dog on a tight leash.

“What actually happened just now?” Asked John. A large part of the whole day had gone over his head, but that could also have been caused by his newfound distraction named Sherlock. Said man snorted and pulled his scarf tighter around his neck at the posed question.

“I do believe I got our victim’s accomplice - art thieves, both of them, as I had guessed - to hand over a slip of paper with a death threat and a time and date. Hamama giren terler, John.”

Sherlock was on the move again, signalling with a tilt of his head for John to follow. “Hamama what now? I don’t speak Turkish, Sherlock, and I don’t have a dictionary on me.”

Turning left, Sherlock gave another small snort at John’s response. “The one who enters a Turkish bath sweats. It’s used to point out that one’s actions determine consequences later in life and should therefore not complain about them. Karma, for a lack of better explanation.”

John frowned, creases popping on his forehead at the revelation. “But what’s the story there? Obviously this is a play for revenge, but why the need for it?”

It might have been the lighting, but John swore that he saw Sherlock’s lips curl upwards just a bit. “That’s why we’re going to the address on the note our mystery art thief handed us. It’s time to be told a story of angry men and money not correctly split.”

 

*

 

The abandoned warehouse could have been worse, if not too cliché in its existence.

Sure, John wasn’t exactly thrilled at having to follow somewhat belatedly behind Sherlock, but he did know the safe feeling that came with handling a gun. Although he would have preferred to have direct eyes on Sherlock.

The death threat had demanded for the woman to come alone - which Sherlock had somehow convinced John to let him take the woman’s place and leave her out of the picture. By any means, that should have brought her to Scotland Yard, but she had slipped away too quickly for John to react, and Sherlock had had no qualms letting her go without further questioning. Lestrade would berate them later for letting her slip away, as well as trying to lure out the killer by using Sherlock as bait.

It wasn’t their most ingenious plan, but Sherlock had assured him of its near hundred percent chance for success. Even if it did mean Sherlock would be diving head first into the warehouse without John by his side. There was an uncomfortable feeling in John’s stomach at the very thought, but at the least, John was merely hidden a good ten feet from where Sherlock was waiting for the killer. Which also meant he got the full on audio experience from ‘horrible villains 101’.

“I did not expect someone else to show up,” drawled a voice. It was clearly accented, male, and somewhat slippery with a lisp on the s. “May I enquire how you have gotten yourself so deeply lost in the warehouse district?” Polite as well, if his eloquent words and the patience with which he spoke was anything to go by.

“I do have an invitation,” said Sherlock. There was a hushed silence, only disturbed by the crinkling of paper as John realised that Sherlock was going to show the death threat to the man who, undoubtedly, sent it himself. His best friend was a terrible show off and attention seeker at the best of times, but this was downright ridiculous.

There was no reason to provoke the man any further, when he had already shown his capabilities of murder.

“Ah, I see,” drawled the man. “No doubt you find yourself wondering who I am?” And it appeared the bad guy had an urge to expose his tragic background story.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. “Not particularly. Your suit tells me it has seen better days, clearly you had a respectable job a good amount of time ago, but you were dishonorably fired. The excessive hair products in your hair tells me that you are vain, despite whatever economic trouble you are facing, and your muscle mass tells me that you either spent an awful lot of time in a gym, or that you had a job where you were required to be physically fit. I would go with the latter, with my money on you being the head of security from wherever our two art thieves had their latest heist.” John couldn’t help but smirk. Sherlock was killing it out there, if the other man’s silence was any indication. “So no, I have no need for your name or your tragic story, I simply needed to find you. It wasn’t that hard to figure out, and it was honestly much easier to draw you out of hiding than I had presumed. You are severely lacking in every aspect of other criminal personnel I have had the chance to encounter. Do try to step up your game.”

Someone spluttered, incoherent words spilling from the man’s lips until he stopped trying to speak altogether - the stuttering action was briefly followed by another rustle of clothes instead. John didn’t have time to comprehend that it was most likely a bad sign, and the feeling grew infinitely worse when whatever Sherlock was about to say was cut short with the unmistakable pop of a gun.

The noise was resounding in the silence that followed, the crack almost like a whistler on grass. John didn’t even swallow his apprehension as he burst forth from his hiding place, gun cocked and at the ready.

“Sherlock!” Cried John. A hint of desperation mixed with a touch of fear. A natural cry of worry dripping from John’s lips, but Sherlock couldn’t focus as he slipped to the floor. His vision swam like piranhas, snapping and angry and _pounding_ inside of his skull.

Another gunshot. _Pop_.

A small cry that wasn’t John’s filled the air, and someone dropped to his knees beside the downed consulting detective. Sherlock didn’t doubt that it was John, and he relaxed under the carefully examining hands probing his body.

“It only grazed your temple, you - you - you stupid man!” Yelled John, hands twisting the front of Sherlock’s coat as he grabbed him by the lapels.

“My head’s on fire, John, are you sure it’s a graze?” There were tears in John’s eyes, neither himself nor Sherlock could deny it, and it contrasted greatly with the bark of laughter that left John’s mouth.

“I’m a doctor, I’d like to think I know the difference between a graze and a gaping bullet wound.” The tears spilled over the edges and dripped down John’s nose before they hit Sherlock’s cheek.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes! Yes, I am absolutely sure,” laughed John, leaning over Sherlock as the man made no further move to get up from the cement floor. “Now shut the hell up so I can snog you.”

The kiss was messy, and nothing like what John had thought it would be. Mainly because he thought it would never happen, and partially because his heart was flooding with relief and adrenaline. He tasted his own tears on Sherlock’s lips - unusually salty, but just the right amount of soft that simply screamed _Sherlock_.

It wasn’t steamy, nor was it as if sparks had gone off in their heads, but it was so undeniably natural and so very _them_ , that nothing anyone said or did could tell John otherwise. This was what they had been meant to be for a long time before he even came to the conclusion of what Sherlock meant to him. The feel of Sherlock’s upturned lips against his own solidified the belief that he had chosen the right action in this particular scenario.

It wasn’t something he was sure of, but then again, nothing the two of them ever did was safe and secure. It wasn’t how they rolled, and their life would continue as usual with danger and mysteries at every twisting turn.

Spindly hands grabbed softly at the doctor’s hair as they broke apart, mingled breaths heavy and happy. “Took you long enough to deduce, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a bit of an older work, but I figured it would fit with the rest of this series. It was a birthday gift for my friend back in February, and therefore a bit rushed, as I was typing out the last words while running to the party and somehow getting hold of a printer.
> 
> Vaguely inspired by the actual Taman Shud Case and the Gardner Museum debacle.


End file.
